The Month I was a Hipster
by Jess the Enthusiast
Summary: Nowadays the world is infected with Hipster posers and Millie Walker is determined to be one of them. Except you know...minus the poser bit. James/OC - a Parody of sorts
1. Day 1

Friday, 1 October 2021: Day 1

I'm a mess. A complete and total _mess_.

All I see in my reflection is sex-hair minus the sex (in other words, completely disheveled), rumpled clothes, and a crazy look in my eye. All of this and it's not even 8:30 yet. Alarming, I know. Especially since I slightly resemble the likes of a crazy girlfriend – correction, a crazy _ex_-girlfriend.

Not too far off the mark, I'll admit.

Remind me to ask for admittance into St. Mungo's for my birthday. I think I'd get in on looks alone – never mind my abundance of other issues.

I mean, have you _seen_ my hair? It looks like I stuck my finger in one of those electrical outlets my grandparents have in their house and then rolled around on the carpet. It's just one big, red poof ball of knots, frizz, and the ineffective muggle hair product I stole from Aubrey Valance. It's monstrous; I swear it's going to _eat_ me.

Okay, so maybe it's not _that_ bad, but it certainly does have some height to it – enough to make head turns, at least.

But that's not the thing I'm most concerned about – though it does cause me some worry – it's actually the crazy look in my eye. That, I think, is in dire need of immediate attention.

I grip onto the edges of the, what was probably once white, porcelain sink, leaning forward until my nose is mere centimeters away from the glass of the dingy mirror. I'm so close to my reflection that I go a bit cross-eyed.

"Mildred Skye Walker," I say in a low, threatening, voice. "This is not the time to crack. You have been through too much just to fuck it all up in the end so you better pull yourself together or else I swear to _Merlin_ –"

"I'm pretty sure that doesn't make you a hipster."

"ACK!" I scream, the surprise of a visitor causing me to jerk forward. My face collides with the mirror – lips, nose, and cheek making contact with the film of dirt that has settled on its surface over the years.

There is a moment where I am staring at the contaminated areas with wide eyes, the mirror reflecting the horror I feel.

I am either going to throw up or cut my face off. Or maybe both.

A roar of laughter sounds from behind me and I know who it is in an instant based off of its familiar condescending tone. I wipe the grim off of my face with the back of my hand.

"Piss off, Berkley. You're such a slimy git," I snap without turning around. "And what are you doing in the girl's lavatory, anyway?"

I hear the sound of footsteps as he approaches me from behind and the blonde head of Wren Berkley suddenly appears in the mirror beside me. "To seduce you of course," he says flatly. "Fancy a shag in one of the stalls, love?"

I can't help but smile and laugh – the statement is just too ridiculous to dignify a proper response. Whereas most girls would probably take his comment the wrong way, I know that Berkley's only joking; despite what the Hogwarts Gossip Mill insists, there is nothing romantic going on between Berkley and myself. It's just not like that – it never was.

Our friendship is of the most cliché origins. Like countless others, Berkley and I met on the Hogwarts Express in our first year. I had nowhere to sit as none of my parents' friends' children thought I was ace enough for them. This stung. So I wandered through the corridor until I saw him. He was situated in an empty compartment. I noticed he had blonde hair like my cousin. That seemed like a good enough reason to join him.

He didn't like me much at first, but it wasn't before long that I had gotten myself a new best mate. We both got sorted into the same house and I guess the rest is history. I mean, here we are six years later and we're still the dynamic duo from first year; in fact, our best mateship is so brill that over the years we haven't even bothered to recruit a third wheel mate just for the hell of it.

Not that there have been any hopefuls for the position, but I'm sure we could have found one somewhere. That is, if we really looked.

Like _a lot_.

Berkley sends me a weak smile but it soon begins to fade as he examines my face. "You okay?" he asks. He has that knowing tone to his voice that makes me want to just hex him right then and there. I ignore the pang of emotion in the pit of my stomach and squash the feeling entirely.

_This is not the time to crack_.

"I'm fine," I tell him, waving it off. "He's at perfect liberty to be with whomever he wants. I just needed to fix my hair."

Berkley's eyes travel from my face to the mess I had referred to. What he sees must reassure him that what I'm saying is the truth because he simply nods and the subject is dropped.

"So what exactly doesn't make me a hipster?" I ask after a moment, just to fill in the silence.

Berkley smirks, taking the bait – just like I knew he would. I begin to relax a bit. "Wearing glasses you don't need."

Count on Berkley to make a comment like that. If we didn't decide a few years back that we were above physical violence in our friendship, I would hit him for saying such a thing. How dare he insult my ability to sway from the norm, to swim against the current, to avoid the ongoing disease that is mainstream society?

Such cheek deserves a good whack to the head if you ask me, but like I said, we don't do that sort of thing. Instead I go for a more theatrical reaction of the verbal nature.

Gasping, I place my hand over my heart, completely scandalized. "What are you talking about? It's totally hipster; all of the hipsters are doing it."

In response, he lets out a big, hearty laugh, causing me to narrow my eyes. This isn't how I wanted the conversation to go. "What's so funny?" I demand.

He just shakes his head and continues to laugh. I wait patiently for it to subside; tapping my foot on the tiled floor in a way that I know just makes his skin crawl. One of the perks of knowing someone for so long is that you know exactly what makes them tick. As if on cue, he throws me a look.

"I think what you just said counts as 'conformity,'" he says tightly.

I stop tapping my foot. "So?"

Now that the offensive noise has ceased, he can return to patronizing me properly, smirk and raised eyebrow included. "So isn't the point of being a hipster is that you do things that set you apart from others?"

I stare at him for a moment at a complete loss for words, my mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. "Well you can just go fuck yourself," I say finally, turning away from him and to the mirror in order to adjust the glasses in question. They are large with thick, black frames. "I'm not taking them off," I tell Berkley. He's still laughing at me for my lack of a witty response. I'm going to have to work on that if I'm going to be a hipster. "I'm not," I repeat. "They look really good."

"If you say so, Millie," he says, really laying the sarcasm on thick.

I throw him a look. "Cheers mate."

Berkley breaks out into a smile and leans down to give me a quick peck on the cheek. "Anytime."

I roll my eyes good-naturedly, cracking a small smile of my own. "Why are we mates again?"

"Because no one else volunteered to fill the void."

"Ah, yes, I remember now."

He grabs a hold of my hand and gives it a light tug. "C'mon, loser, we're gonna be late for Charms."

"Tisk, tisk, Berkley, such nasty verbal abuse. And for your information, I am not a loser, I am a Hippy-Hipster," I insist on our way out of the loo together – which probably isn't the best idea seeing that there is a load of people bustling down the corridor on their way to class. Some whispering erupts over the masses, but we ignore it like usual.

"Yeah, but to the hipsters, you're just a poser."

I feel a blaze of fury sweep through me and I send Berkley a scowl. This is the sort of thing that really bugs me; I feel like he never takes anything I do or say seriously. It's actually quite maddening. But as a sixth year, it's a bit too late in the game to pack up my bags and hunt for a new best mate. And contrary to what I'm willing to admit, I have gotten slightly, but _only_ slightly, attached to the bloke.

I repeat: _slightly_.

…

But just for the record, I haven't chucked him yet on sentiments alone.

But that is _it_.

I continue to glower at Berkley, and in the meantime, I also attempt to rip my hand from his but he tightens his iron grip, smirking at me, and pulls me along the corridor and in the direction of the stairs. I have no choice but to follow and I glare at the back of his head.

Forgive me, but I'm not too fond of being manhandled, thanks.

Manhandled. The mention of the word gets me thinking.

Man.

Handled.

Man.

_Men_.

As we weed through the crowd, I can't help but notice the disgusting amount of _men_ that are congregating in the surrounding vicinity: men that have recently turned of age, young boys all of whom will soon become men. It's revolting. They're literally everywhere: leaning against the stone wall in a stance I suspect they think is mysterious and sexy; sweet talking some girl in hopes of getting her into bed later in the evening; getting into nonsense arguments over which House will win the Quidditch Cup; seeing which of their mates can yell various vulgarities the loudest; burping the twelve uses of dragon's blood; making last minute adjustments to the essay they scrambled to write at breakfast.

I look around and revel in the fact that I hate them; I really do, I hate men. And there's no way of getting away from them, for they insist on infecting me with their presence and all-around stupidity. Even now, I am subjected to them: here I am being dragged around by some blonde Neanderthal as he reaches his hand into his trousers to scratch at his balls.

Is anyone else noticing this? Anyone? Anyone at all? I look around wildly, hoping and expecting to see a sign of disgust, of any acknowledgement, really, but no, it seems that society has been conditioned into accepting the vile creatures that are commonly referred to as 'men.'

If it weren't for the necessity of their reproductive function, I'd say that they should be wiped out completely.

It takes us a bit of time to reach the stairs; the congestion of students (half of which _men_) makes sure of that. And despite my intense liking to do so, I decide that blasting people out of the way will only make me lose my Prefect's badge. The prospect of a demotion seems pretty appealing, in all honesty; the only downside to being stripped of my title would be the certain Howler I'd receive from my parents as a result.

Last time I got one of those wasn't too pretty. I still flinch every time our family owl, Rosencrantz, swoops down to bring me letters.

After a bit pushing and elbowing, we finally make it to the stairs and continue our way to the third floor, Berkley never slackening his grip on my hand. I follow him, just a few steps behind his brisk pace; I know that now it seems like he's dragging me – which is in no way ideal, but walking next to each other hand in hand just seems too coupley to me.

And we are _not_ a couple; I repeat: _not_.

We stroll into the Charms classroom just as the bell is ringing and we take our usual seats in the back row. Professor Clearwater stalks the aisles of tables in her daily ritual, looking for an offense among the group of Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs that can allow her to dock points.

Every time she does this, I can't help but conjure up the image of a hawk.

I swear I've never met a professor like her in all my life. She practically _lives_ to take off points and hand out detentions, feeding on each and every student's despair…Dear Merlin, she's a dementor. But in all honestly, you'd think as the Head of Ravenclaw she'd be less keen to make us end up in last every year for the House Cup, but _no_, that sort of thing seems to tickle her fancy. She took over for Flitwick after his terrible accident in the library a few years back: a stack of books had fallen off a table and crushed him into retirement. There has always been suspicion surrounding Professor Clearwater's involvement in the incident among the student body; she had been the assistant librarian at the time and was clearly after Flitwick's job. I swear the woman practically _salivates_ every time somebody mentions _Wingardium Leviosa._

But whether she plotted against Flitwick or not, she got her wish. She's been the Charms teacher for the last three years now and it's been hell. We're assigned long essays with little time to complete them, tests that are near impossible to past unless hours are spent studying for them, and Ravenclaw is practically in the negatives when it comes to house points.

I don't think I've ever hated a teacher so much before, and I took Divination – briefly, that is, but still. Trelawney's a nightmare.

My hatred for the wretch fresh on my mind, I can't help but wrinkle my nose as if I'd just smelled something particularly nasty. But no worries; it's only natural. The woman can have that kind of effect on you.

While scanning the room, Professor Clearwater and I make eye contact and she holds my gaze; every ounce of hatred she feels for me cascades through the air between us, nearly knocking me out of my chair with its sheer power. I wouldn't be surprised if later in the day, I happen to be told that I have holes burned into my robes. And by some random stranger, no doubt; I can't imagine Berkley going out of his way to inform me of such a thing. That's just Berkley. But, anyway, Clearwater and I – let's just say that the two of us have never gotten along.

After eyeing me coldly for a solid twenty seconds or so, she starts to move her gaze elsewhere until something on my person catches her eye. She makes a beeline towards me with a particularly nasty expression on her face.

I sincerely hope that she didn't catch the momentary widening of my eyes; she's the kind of creature that can smell fear. I quickly duck my head and in the following moments, I take a particular fascination in my quill, spinning it between my fingers and stroking the edges.

Nope, I'm not doing anything – not anything at all. Just playing with my quill.

In the corner of my eye, I notice Berkley lean back in his chair, resting his hands behind his head as if about to watch a show. He must think that he's a right Seer because he predicted this happening at breakfast. And I know that I'm right because he doesn't attempt to hide his smirk – or properly restrain himself from wagging his eyebrows at me.

Tosser.

You know, I always thought he was a bit of a sadist.

I not so discreetly flip him off. He lets out a chuckle.

I should probably put an ad out for a new best mate; my current one's sympathy function is broken. You know, I wonder if Madam Pomfrey is capable of growing a person feelings – I mean, she _can_ grow bones after all.

The room seems to quiet as Clearwater makes her way towards me, her footsteps practically echoing with each click of her killer heels. _Click, click, click:_ the sound of sure and sudden death. Those very heels became a Hogwarts legend last term when a rumor circulated that she punctured Troy McLaggen's right lung with them when he served a detention with her. He had written "Merlin, if we give you Professor Clearwater, will you give us Hagrid back?" on his desk. While I – along with several other students – thought it was of the utmost _brilliance_, Clearwater wasn't too pleased.

And McLaggen was never seen again.

…

Actually, he just graduated, but the story is _so_ much better when he dies at the end, I think.

I don't look up when the dreaded clicking stops even though I know that the sudden silence was due to the fact that she had reached her final destination at my desk. Even though it's pointless, I'm kind of hoping that if I don't look up, she'll just disappear.

It's just that Professor Clearwater is like a shit that won't flush.

The impatient clearing of the throat confirms that.

Wincing ever so slightly, I glance up. It doesn't surprise me that she looks like she's out for blood – you have to be out of your mind to keep someone like Clearwater waiting – even if it's only for a few seconds.

I swallow hard, and despite how I feel, I try to keep the tentativeness out of my voice. "Is there something I can help you with?" I do not assume the polite tone I typically put on for authority figures.

Professor Clearwater's eyes immediately narrow at this; she doesn't like being referred to anything other than 'Professor' and 'Ms.' She gives me a tight smile. "As a matter of fact, there is, Miss Walker. It's about your uniform – or your lack thereof."

I don't need to glance down to know that she is referring to. This morning I opted out of wearing my usual school ensemble and blue and bronze tie in favor of hot pink shorts over black tights, and a blue and purple plaid shirt.

I am the epitome of cool – very hipster, indeed.

…At least _I_ think so; Berkley just laughed at me when he saw me at breakfast.

"_Well_, Walker?" She's tapping her foot now; Berkley is twitching from beside me and I have to fight the urge to laugh. I don't know what it is with that boy and tapping your foot, but it drives him positively _mad_.

I really should prolong my response as pay back for saying that I wasn't a hipster this morning, but I decide that I may as well put him out of his misery. I mean, he wouldn't do me any good if he was in the Hospital Wong for ripping all of my hair out, now would he? I can't imagine Wren Berkley being able to waltz through life without his luscious golden locks.

Trust me, Berkley would be nothing if he wasn't pretty.

I shrug, making a show of leaning back in my chair and draping my arm lazily over the chair's back. I hope this looks as nonchalant and cool as it does in my head – wouldn't want to look stupid while having a showdown with Clearwater. "Uniforms are a bit too mainstream for my taste."

…

Shit, that was _good_. Mega hipster, right there.

But I suppose that it wasn't as impressive as I thought, because the next thing that comes out of Clearwater's mouth is: "Twenty points from Ravenclaw!"

There's a roar of outrage from my fellow 'Claws and a buzz of murmuring from the 'Puffs. _Twenty_ points? Berkley looks fit for murder and I'm spluttering all over the place – while I _have_ had lost Ravenclaw a fair amount of points over the years because of this bloody nut, never have I lost so many at once.

"_Twenty_ points?" I cry out, my voice raising a few octaves so it's a bit squeaky. "Are you out of your bleeding mind?"

"Language! Make that ten more points, Walker." She must think that it's the end of discussion because she's turning away from me and strolling down the aisle and towards the front of the room.

I mutter a swear under my breath which I don't think she will hear and makes Berkley let out a soft laugh.

But apparently I'm wrong because before I know it, she has whipped around and her face is in mine, her nose nearly pressing against mine.

"_What_ did you say?" she hisses.

If this had been any other day things would have been different. If I hadn't woken up this morning vowing to be someone else or if I hadn't seen _him_ kissing _her _at breakfast, things would have been different. Because right now I would be calmly swearing up and down that I in fact said nothing – absolutely nothing – like I normally would. Because that is logical. Because that is what is right. But I _did_ wake up this morning vowing to be someone else and I _did_ see him kissing _her_ at breakfast. So it is different; it isn't right. I've got nothing; I've nothing to lose.

So I repeated my words slowly, loud and clear so that she and the rest of the class can hear: "Fuck you."

I am sent to the headmistress's office before you can say 'Hippy-Hipster.' Berkley sends me a thumbs up on my way out the door.

Merlin, I have never felt so good.

A/N: Hi there! So I'm not exactly sure why I haven't published this story here yet. I have four chapters of this already written so updates should be quick – but only at first. Please keep in mind that I'm a lazy and busy college student so I don't always have time to write, but do know that I will always update even if it takes me forever. So I hope that you enjoyed this first chapter! It's a bit of a parody, but it's gonna have some serious themes as well as funny parts. And also, in case you're confused, this is going to be a James/OC love story eventually, but I'm going to take my time in getting there. Hopefully you'll find the non-romance aspects interesting enough in the time being.

Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought in a review!

~Jess


	2. Day 2

Saturday, 2 October 2021: Day 2

I am wearing Aubrey Valence's shoes.

Berkley likes to call it my "Little Sticky-Fingers Problem" but what he fails to recognize is that I am merely borrowing without permission, not _stealing_. Aubrey's Oxfords will be returned to the shoe domain underneath her bed before sundown. Now, her hairspray and nail varnish remover are another matter entirely – she isn't getting those back.

My only regret is that Aubrey and I aren't exactly the same shoe size.

I trek to the Great Hall alone at around nine o'clock, a slight throb coursing through my feet due to the pinch in the area around my toes. It makes walking a task fit for the Triwizard Tournament; each step is like taking on a fucking dragon so I end up walking as if I am treading on a bunch of eggshells. This doesn't look very hipster so a bit of improvising is due in course: swag, I try to pass the waddle off for swag.

But of course I can't fool Berkley.

"Well if it isn't my favorite Kleptomaniac," he says through a mouthful of sausage as I take a seat across from him. I eye him with disgust after getting a full view of the contents in his mouth – not exactly the way I want to start my day off with, thanks.

Such a typical bloke, he is – a prime example as to why men add nothing of substantial value to society.

"With table manners like that, I'm sure you're Rowena's favorite Ravenclaw," I say, paying no mind to his previous comment.

I am _not_ a Kleptomaniac.

He merely shrugs. "Better a slob than a thief."

I roll my eyes, flipping him off, but it's ignored as usual. Berkley winks at me and lowers his voice, leaning in conspiringly. "So, who are you wearing this time, Mills? Fan Clark? Aubrey Valence? Sherri Thomas?"

"Shove it," I snap once he's finished rattling off the names of my dorm mates. "And I didn't steal them. Just think of it as a temporary donation…that Aubrey didn't intentionally provide."

"Ah, so Valence is the lucky benefactor."

"Of course, who else would it be?" the voice of Sherri Thomas adds as she slides into the seat to my right. "Millie doesn't take any of my shit."

Sherri Thomas is that friend you have that isn't really your friend outside of meals and your dorm. Not that we're enemies or anything while in class or the halls, we just don't talk unless pushed together – it's some odd, unspoken agreement we have. It kind of came about halfway through first year because her best mate resides in Hufflepuff and mine is of the manly essence and therefore is in the boy dormitories. So, naturally, we looked to each other for company when our other half wasn't around. Berkley doesn't think much of her but I think she's nice enough. But then again, Berkley doesn't think much of any of my other friends.

Sherri sends me a wink as if what she has said has helped my case. I give her a kick underneath the table that ends up being much more forceful than I had intended.

"Oi!" Sherri cries out upon impact. "No kicking the Founder of your Hipster Feast!"

"_Founder_ of my Hipster Feast?" I splutter mid-sip, nearly choking on my drink. Pumpkin juice projects across the table and hits Berkley square in the face. He swears loudly and I pay no mind to the violent – but no doubt empty – threats directed at me but rather keep my attention on the raven haired girl. "What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"

There's a ghost of a smirk on her face and I notice her eyes darting between me and Berkley, clearly enjoying the breakfast-drink shower he has just received. "Well, I _did_ charm Florence Hen's glasses' lenses into plastic, now didn't I?"

I stare at her blankly. "Yes, but _I_ was the once who took them from her bag."

"You _stole_ something, Millie?" Berkley gasps with mock surprise, wiping the remaining drips of juice off his face with a napkin. "Someone's prized, personal belonging? How seemingly out of character."

I turn my head to glare at him. "Fuck you."

Berkley raises his index finger as if I've just reminded him of something. "Ah, speaking of 'fuck yous', may I once again take the time to express how utterly _stupid_ I think this whole hipster act is?"

I set my jaw. "No you may not, and for the last time, it is not an act –"

"As much as I enjoyed that _glorious_ show you put on in Charms class yesterday morn," he continues enthusiastically. The fluidity and formality of his words tells me that this speech has been previously prepared…How Berkley. "It's time to cut the crap, Millie. You have detention every Saturday this month. How the _fuck_ am I supposed to spend my Saturdays?"

"Well, there's always your hand to keep you company," Sherri cuts in just as I'm about to open my mouth to respond. I slightly resent the fact that her answer has much more character than the one I was going to use.

The next few seconds are suffocating – as in I can't breathe through the thick, air tight film of non-sexual tension radiating off these two – and Berkley eyes Sherri critically, his stare met with equal distaste. "You know, I think the Hufflepuff table requires your presence, Thomas. You might want to run along."

"I'm good where I am, thanks." Sherri's response is sharp, tight. Just when I think I have to step in as damage control, the moment has passed and Sherri is turning to me and flashing me a sweet smile. "_I_ think what you're doing is empowering, Millie. _Fuck_ authority, _fuck_ the institution."

I beam at Sherri, suddenly very appreciative of her. As sad as it is, she's the only person so far who has supported me on this. "You know, Thomas, there's a lot more to you than Quidditch and shiny hair. If it weren't for your mission to seduce Hunter Boot, I'd make you first lieutenant of my movement."

Sherri starts to smile but then pauses and furrows her eyebrows. "Was that a compliment?"

I shrug. "Of sorts."

"Cheers, Walker. You're a riot," she says flatly.

"Naturally," I reply easily, not bothering to hide my smirk. Sherri gives a little huff.

"You know, you can't blame me for fancying him, Millie. I mean, have you _seen_ Hunter Boot?"

The three of us turn to face the Slytherin table simultaneously, just in time to see Hunter Boot lean his head back and attempt to balance a spoon vertically on the bridge of his nose – only for it to fall and poke him in the eye.

"Oh yeah, he's great," I drawl.

"A real catch," Berkley agrees dryly.

"Fuck off," Sherri interrupts loudly before we can say anything else. I can't help but let out a giggle. "Yeah, well, he may not have much in the brains department," she calls over my laughter. "But he's fit to boot."

"Wasn't funny the first seven times you said that, Thomas," Berkley scoffs. "And you might wanna join up with Walker, here, after all. Maybe the break from blokes will give you better taste."

"Oh hush up, nobody asked you Berkley. But excuse me for not participating in a silly little Boy Fast," she snaps, folding her arms across her chest. "_I_ wasn't the one scorned by Nott."

I don't think she's realized what she's said. If Berkley has, he doesn't mention it.

But _I_ have – and I'm not laughing anymore.

My light mood is lost; I feel tense, straggled – as if all of the breath within me has vanished completely. It's almost funny how I forgot. It's like that saying: Out of sight, out of mind. And I almost can't believe it. I've been thinking about the bloke non-stop for how bloody long and one day I have my back turned to the Gryffindor table, and suddenly it's as if he's fallen off the face of the earth.

The fact that he no longer sits with the Ravenclaws proves how much I really lost him.

We had been the talk of the school for the past week and only now things have begun to simmer down. But just because you aren't as blatantly talked about, doesn't mean that you aren't at all. It still amazes people now as much as it did before. People still remember the tale of how Millie Walker and Ferris Nott broke up on Sunday and how he had a new bird by Tuesday.

And it still hurts.

But I'm not going to be remembered as the little girl who got her heart broken – I'm not. I refuse. So I guess that's where this hipster thing came about.

But it's going to work and I'm going to be happy.

Someday.

With a shake of my head, I break from my thoughts and return to reality, left with a distinct feeling of nausea. Sherri and Berkley are arguing, which doesn't at all surprise me. They've been going at it like this for years and I think I'd be more alarmed if they stopped. Ironically enough, they're discussing me but are paying me no mind. I gather from half-listening that Sherri thinks that I should start a trend in order to enforce and embrace my newfound, inner hipster while Berkley doesn't want her to 'encourage me'.

Normally this is a discussion that'd I'd very much like to be a part of, seeing as I am in dire need of brainstorming for possible trends, but right now I need to find a lone bathroom when I can vomit in peace.

When I excuse myself, I'm not even sure if they register it.

I leave the Great Hall, concentrating extra hard to not let my eyes stray over to the lion's den and keep my attention forward. The Entrance Hall is noisy and packed with people, much to my surprise; they are encircled around something – almost like a duel or a sideshow. I make my way over to get a better look and surely enough, Sebastian Turk is standing in the middle of it all, rapping to the beat of Rory Chang's hiccups. James Potter and Alaric Wood are predictably making rounds, collecting spare knuts and sickles from various bystanders.

I watch the absurdity of the scene with wide eyes, a bit unsure whether or not to laugh. The little third year, Rory, has had the hiccups for the past three weeks now and the kid refuses to see Madam Pomfrey about it because he's become so popular with the older students.

And why not when you get attention like this? That little boy will go down in Hogwarts History as a human metronome, no doubt.

A scarlet and gold, woolen hat is suddenly shoved under my nose by Potter. "How 'bout it, Walker," he grins cheekily. "We accept knuts, sickles, love letters, Muggle checks, and galleons."

I automatically want to scowl at him, but I hold back. Is it silly of me to hold onto a little grudge for something that happened last year? Especially since he doesn't even know that I had overheard him saying to his mates that I was 'too skinny to fuck'. So I figure that I should let bygones be bygones and I smile instead, stuffing a hand into my pocket even though I'm pretty sure I have no money on me. I find a brass button instead and place it into the hat. "Remember me," I say, airily – almost dreamlike. I don't know why I'm flirting with him; fancying James Potter is utterly cliché and way too mainstream. _And_ against the Boy Fast but I figure why the hell not?

He lets a hearty laugh, as I knew he would; James Potter is known for having a good sense of humor. "Always and forever," he jokes before turning to the next person.

I leave the crowd feeling a bit better than I did before I joined it.

It's six forty: Berkley came back from Quidditch practice a few hours ago and it's twenty minutes before the start of my first detention with Clearwater. I know the rumors about McLaggen aren't true but I can't help but feel a bit nervous. I mean, what _does_ Professor Clearwater make you do during detention? Can I not think of a single example other than the mythical Death Heels because nothing of interest has ever happened or because students have been traumatized into silence?

As I'm finishing up my game of Wizard's Chess with Berkley, I know that I'm about to find out.

I sit not exactly patiently as Berkley examines the board with much intent. I suddenly wonder what it must be like to play chess with a Gryffindor. Their games must be quick, exciting, reckless, wrapped up in about twenty minutes. There is no room for risk in a Ravenclaw's game; each move must be measured and thought out.

And they can go on for hours.

I glance down at my watch. Six forty-five. "Speed it up, will you, Berk? You've been staring at your blasted knight for the past five minutes and I've got to see the Devil's Mistress in a bit."

He doesn't look up at me, keeping his eyes trained on his pieces. "Is your summoning really that soon?" he murmurs easily. Then he abruptly sits up and stares at me haughtily as he always does when he's about to take out one of my players. "Knight, G5." I gaze down at the board just in time to see my queen get pulverized by Berkley's white stallion.

Bugger.

Desperately wanting to speed this game up, I move my bishop without really inspecting the board and in less than two rounds, I've once again been checked mate.

I sigh; I hadn't really tried to win but it's always a let down to lose.

But I swear it's reached a point where I think Berkley only plays against me because I'm almost a guarantee win for him.

"Good game, huh?" I look up. Berkley is cleaning up and I know I should be helping, but my mind is elsewhere.

"Isn't Honoria an ugly name?" I blurt out. He looks up, raising an eyebrow and my cheeks flare up.

"Honoria Smith's atrocious name is a bit of an easy target, don't you think?" Berkley asks, grinning wickedly. "I trust you have more creativity than that."

"It rhymes with gonorrhea," I say quietly, a smile playing on my lips. Berkley snorts.

"I think you better head down, or else you'll be late."

I sigh, standing up. "I suppose you're right. Don't have too much fun without me."

"With this lot?" Berkley jerks his thumb to the group of fifths years studying madly on the couches – for O.W.L.s no doubt. I can't say I'll ever forget how much fear the faculty had successfully instilled in me last year over end of the year exams during the first month of school. "Somehow I can't see that happening."

I laugh and give him a little wave as I make my way over to the portrait hole. Once in the corridor, I increase my pace, sincerely not wanting to be late or have a run-in with Peeves. My feet are screaming at me with each step that I take and I can't help but regret the decision of borrowing Aubrey's shoes – no matter how much better they look on me.

I finally make it to the Charms corridor on the third floor – practically running – and I'm just about kicking myself for cutting it so short. I'm not sure how long it took me to get here but I have a bad feeling that it's a few minutes after seven.

Aubrey's shoes don't have much traction and I'm slipping and sliding across the floor as I'm running towards Clearwater's classroom. I'm just about to scurry in when _crash!_ I run into something.

Not some_thing_. Some_one_.

Clearwater.

Professor Clearwater is standing in the doorway of her room, no doubt waiting there so she could bark at me for being a quarter of a minute late the moment I arrived. I fall to the floor upon impact, landing on my arse, but Clearwater remains standing, solid as always. She's looking down on me with revolution and I am suddenly overwhelmed by pain concentrated in the area around my nose. For a brief moment I am wildly thinking that she's silently cast _Crucio_ on me but then my more rational side reminds me that I'd feel pain over my entire person if she did that.

I reach up to gingerly touch my nose and there's blood and more pain and all that good stuff. Professor Clearwater points her wand in my face and I stare at it with wide eyes, stupidly wondering what she's going to do. She's muttering all kinds of charms and spells and before you know it, my nose is no longer broken and after giving it a quick check, I find that the blood is gone.

I stand up slowly, reveling in the fact that this is so unbelievably awkward. We are now face-to-face and neither of us is moving, just staring.

I clear my throat. "Er…thanks."

"Five points for being late, ten for running in the corridors. I think you should take a seat, Miss Walker." She steps aside and I scurry into the room and take a seat at a table in the front where she's prepared parchment and a quill and ink for me.

Lines? It couldn't only be lines. Out of all the things she could have made me do, I never expected that she'd just give me lines. It just doesn't suit her. But maybe I'm not analyzing it correctly. Right now I have been given the illusion that I am merely doing lines, but maybe she'll force me to stab myself in the eye after each completed sentence. Or make me ingest the ink along with the quill and parchment.

All of which would get her sacked and me killed or seriously injured but I don't mind being the martyr, I really don't. Anything to take her down would be ace.

I sit in my seat waiting patiently to be given instruction. Soon enough Professor Clearwater is making her way down the aisle and doesn't look at me until she's seated at her desk.

"I want you to write 'I will learn to keep my thoughts to myself'." I suppress the urge to roll my eyes because I figure that wouldn't be considered 'keeping my thoughts to myself'. I wait for her to tell me how many times she wants me to write it, but she doesn't continue and instead begins to correct papers, or sign students' souls to the devil, or whatever the hell she's doing.

I clear my throat. "How many times?"

Her head snaps up to glare at me. "Excuse me?" She says this venomously as if I'd just told her to fuck off or something.

"How many times do you want me to write it?" I ask slowly, so as to make sure that my intentions are known and not misinterpreted.

She waves me off. "Just fill up the parchment front and back."

I nod my head and get to work.

Twenty-five minutes later and my assignment is complete. I'm pretty stoked that I finished so soon and that the detention – aside from the broken nose – was essentially quick and painless. When I inform Professor Clearwater that I've finished, she surprises me by reaching into her desk; seeing that it isn't past curfew yet, she shouldn't need to give me a pass to my common room.

That's when she gives me a new, clean piece of parchment.

"Same rules apply," she says in a clipped tone.

She doesn't let me leave until it's nine o'clock and I've completed five rolls of parchment. My hand hurts and I hate her.

Pass in hand, I leave the Charms corridor and head to Ravenclaw Tower; I am soon forced to take the long way when I spot Peeves roaming the halls and harassing some portraits.

It's pretty dark so I take out my wand and whisper a quick _Lumos_, the light filling up a small portion of the corridor. To my left is a large window that gives a good view of the grounds and I spare it a glance, but I don't pay much attention because I have a load on my mind. I am thinking about how much writing is going to hurt come Monday lessons, how glad I am that I completed my homework last night, and wondering what the hell I am going to do for the hipster trend Sherri was talking about at breakfast.

But then I see it. Over by the pumpkin patch near the little hut that used to be Hagrid's. And I know exactly what my trend is going to be.

**A/N: Okay so here's chapter two! I've gotten some mixed reviews for the first chapter, but I'd like to thank everyone who gave it a shot. I'd like to remind everyone, because one anonymous reviewer seemed to be a bit confused: **_**this is a parody, of sorts**_**. Therefore, Millie is going to purposefully be absurd, and while she may seem like she is a Mary Sue, I can assure you that she is not. The Millie we are seeing now is not who she actually is; this is a persona that she is putting on in hopes to ignore her actual problem – which is the heartache she feels due to her break up. She will grow and change throughout the story. I hope that clears some things up.**

**Thank you for reading! Please leave me a review to let me know your thoughts and any questions that you have!**

**~Jess :D**


	3. Day 3

Sunday, 3 October 2021: Day 3

Being a prefect isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Actually, as long as we're being honest here, I'll go as far as saying that it's bloody _awful_ – absolutely torturous. You'd think that the school would be less keen on punishing their brightest and most well behaved, but that's Hogwarts for you. Ask _any_ prefect from _any_ House; I swear to you they'd be willing to hand in their badge for an actual soul faster than you can say _Accio Self-Respect._ And you know what? I'll take that even a step further: my utter and complete _loathing_ for being a prefect runs so deep that if I was to die and come back in the next life as a mindless Hufflepuff that would be quite alright by me.

Don't get me wrong though, the bathroom privileges are pretty ace; I just don't quite fancy being a glorified Muggle Hall Monitor, if you know what I mean.

Which brings me to rounds. Merlin knows that this job wouldn't be half bad if it weren't for rounds. _And_ if I got paid, but that's beside the point. Rounds. They fucking _rank_. The only people who actually _enjoy_ rounds – aside from our soulless Head Girl, Gwyneth Ross – are those who are romantically attached to the person that they're assigned to roam the castle with. They're alone together past curfew; you do the math.

And let's just say that for the rest of us chaps, rounds aren't quite as much fun.

So to cut to the chase, I think I need a break – plain and simple. I've endured far too many late night shifts and weekly patrols for _anyone_ to stomach, never mind a Ravenclaw Hipster on a mission. So fuck it; I play by my own rules now. And that does not, by _any_ circumstances, include rounds.

So that's basically it. Sherri is doing some investigating for me in Ravenclaw Tower. And me? I've got my own agenda; and as I saunter alone through the grounds instead of rounding it up in the castle, I begin to revel in the feeling of excitement that's building up in my chest. I've never been out this late after curfew before without a note from a professor or the excuse of prefect's duties. It's exhilarating. It's the knowledge of being about to fuck shit up and not caring a whit about it.

I'm just passing the Black Lake, on my way to the pumpkin patch, the sky a deep blue, when a voice calls out my name.

It's almost funny how quickly you can go from being a self-proclaimed badass to a complete nervous wreck.

I freeze midstride – absolutely panic stricken – and I know I'm in trouble. The voice is familiar to me but not the one I have been waiting for since I left the castle; it takes me a moment to place it. But once the voice fully registers, I realize that I'm more annoyed than anything.

"Fuck me," I hiss under my breath as I turn around.

Standing in front of me, wearing a smile big enough to cure Spattergroit, is Gwyneth Ross: Head Girl, Walking Hufflepuff Stereotype, Charms Club President, Resident Pain-in-the-Arse, and Reason I will Someday be in Azkaban for Murder.

_Great_.

As I wait for her to finish her prance towards me, it dawns on me that this conversation I'm about to have the misfortune of partaking in can go either one of two ways: detention and being escorted back to the castle _or_ leaving scot-free but being roped into an hour long discussion on her latest horoscope. I think it goes without saying that I'm hoping for the former.

"Oh _hello_ there, Millie, I've been looking all _over_ for you," Gwyneth gushes as she closes the distance between us with an extra pep in her step. Actually, she _always_ has an extra pep in her step. Which is actually really annoying. Like _really_.

But this is likely due to the fact that she's probably four and a half feet tall; she needs to literally _bounce_ in order to travel long distances in record time.

Or she's just a peppy arsehole. Your pick.

"Gwyneth," I return politely with a severe lack of enthusiasm. I'm really not looking forward to this as it is and her Christmas-in-October Cheer isn't really helping my already low tolerance for her presence. I know I would never actually _do_ anything to make sure that this conversation never happens but the headline _"Rogue Prefect Hexes Vertically Challenged Head Girl into Oblivion,"_ immediately comes to mind and I almost laugh.

If only Hogwarts had a school newspaper.

"Gwen," she corrects me happily, grinning widely in a way that makes me think that her cheeks are going to crack.

"Right."

Our conversations always begin this way and yet I don't think I'll ever start calling her Gwen. And no matter how many times she corrects me, I don't think she'll ever get mad about it.

Neither of us has said anything since my lackluster response and it's kind of getting awkward. I clear my throat and start to shift my feet as I wait for her to tell me whatever it is that she's about to burst out – most likely in song, no doubt – but she's suddenly quiet. Which is unusual for her. I look up to see that her brown eyes are wide in a way that's too big for her face and I take a step back because _Merlin_, it's scary, and she cries out "How are you holding up?"

"Er, excuse me?" I take another step back and hold out my arms to deflect any stranglehold hugs that might be thrown at me.

Mistaking my extended arms for some sort of sacrificial offering, she claims both of my hands in hers and gives them a squeeze. "I _know_ it must be _hard_ and we're here for _you_, every one of us – _I'm_ here for you."

Her hands feel like they've been recently lubricated with a Muggle lotion of sorts and in theory that should make it easier to extract mine from her constricting grip but I don't know how to do this without coming across as rude rather than a simple act of self-preservation. So I just stand there, hoping that she'll take my silence as an invitation to continue with whatever rubbish she's going on about. Because I really don't know what she's talking about.

_Unless_ –

No. No, she's not talking about _that_. People finally stopped talking about that Friday when I told Clearwater off in class. It's actually quite typical of human society: a new thing comes along and people forget, they _move_ _on_. Compared to that, we're old news.

History.

When the silence carries on further, I realize that she's waiting for me to say something. I clear my throat. "Er – thanks," I say rather awkwardly, a beat of sweat forming on the back of my neck. It's not exactly warm out but I feel like I'm overheating.

Gwyneth – _Gwen_ – responds to my thanks in the only way she knows how: beaming like a raging psychopath. I allow her a small, but wary, smile. Because if I really think about it, while she's very well capable of _Avadaing_ me and getting away with it, she also means well; I don't think she realizes exactly how overbearing/annoying she can be.

Giving my hands another love-filled squeeze, she adds, "Also, I talked it over with Warner," – our Head Boy – "And we thought you might feel more comfortable if we switched your rounds from Sunday to Thursday nights so you don't have to work with…_You-Know-Who_." She whispers the last part like it's a dirty word.

And I freeze. Because she isn't talking about Voldemort; she means Ferris. Ferris Nott. My Sunday night rounds partner. The one I ditched tonight to play Hipster, the one I've been avoiding at all costs for exactly a week.

Like I said, rounds aren't fun when you're working with someone you aren't romantically attached to; they're even worse when that person is your ex-boyfriend.

I stare at Gwyneth Ross, completely in shock and then suddenly my whole body relaxes and I feel lighter – as if a heavy load has been taken off my chest.

I smile at her – and this time it's genuine. "Thank you."

"You're _welcome!_" Gwyneth squeals, releasing my hands to pull me into a bone crushing hug.

Merlin's blood encrusted left nostril, my life sucks.

I sigh in discontent as quietly as possible. Gwyneth's gesture – although, er…sweet – is pretty awkward considering the Wizard-to-Goblin type height difference between us. My own scrawn feels even more prominent to me against her plush, but I snake my stick arms around her shoulders to give her back a light pat. She did me a nice favor; it's the least that I can do for her.

After several long minutes of uncomfortable touching on my part, Gwyneth releases me and takes a step back. I have to admit that I'm pretty grateful for this; I really need a breather after all of this space invading.

"So, um, who's my new partner?" I ask, my mind already sifting through all of the prefects, trying to remember who patrols on Thursdays. Not only am I extremely curious as to who I'll be working with for the rest of the year, I would like to find him or her during breakfast tomorrow and discuss where we'll meet come Thursday.

"Alaric Wood, sixth year Gryffindor," Gwyneth replies with her usual zeal before bidding me good night along with a friendly reminder that I should be in bed.

It is only when I am alone and she is halfway back to the castle that it occurs to me that Gwyneth has done Ferris a favor as well: the other sixth year Gryffindor prefect – the one I have been switched with – is none other than Honoria Smith.

Looks like Ferris will be having a lot of fun during his Sunday night rounds.

This doesn't sit well with me.

I have only just begun to start walking again when I am accosted once more, a strong hand tightening around my wrist and pulling me to a halt. It's almost too dark to see, but the ghostly outline of a chiseled jaw line and tall frame tells me that it's Berkley – the one I've been waiting for all night. What is said next confirms this:

"Are you out of your fucking _mind?_"

The breeze suddenly picks up and slaps me across the face – almost as if he commanded it to do so.

I knew that she would tell him – which is why I knew he would come find me. It was only a matter of time; Berkley can be tragically predictable if he puts his mind to it.

"Sherri told you," I say voicing what I already know. His silence confirms my thoughts but I'm not mad. When I want Berkley to know something, I tell Sherri; his many talents include – but are not limited to – goading her hot head into submission. It was only a matter of time that he'd break her down; I'm just surprised that it wasn't sooner.

"Well," I start when he doesn't answer. "What do you think? Pretty brill, right?"

"I think it's bloody stupid and dangerous, that's what I think," he growls, his grip tightening uncomfortably around my wrist.

"What's so stupid about it?" I cry out, purposely leaving out the dangerous portion because, well, it's pretty fucking dangerous.

"I don't get you and this whole Hipster thing, Millie," Berkley says in a low, barely controlled voice. We have to be careful or else we'll wake up the whole castle. Or worse: Attract the attention of Ferris and Honoria – wouldn't want to _interrupt_ their snogging session in some broom closet. "What's the point of all this? And why the _hell_ do you need to start this stupid trend for? What are you trying to _prove?_"

I ignore most of his questions and answer the easiest, less soul searching one. "Sherri said that I should start a Hipster trend and _I_ happen to think it's a good idea!"

"Well what makes Thomas the authority on all things Hipster? I mean, she's digging through every Ravenclaw's trunk for corduroy pants as we speak! What the _fuck_, Millie?"

"Corduroy pants are Hipster!" I insist, stomping my foot.

"How would you even know anyway? You're not a Muggle!"

"Sherri's sister said so! She's a Squib so she ought to know, don't you think?"

It happens so quickly, I almost miss it but with Berkley so close to my face I can see the lines of frustration on his brow lighten up and before I know it, he's smirking.

My jaw sets. I rip my wrist out of his grasp and scowl at him. "Oh shut _up_," I snarl, my glare hard and my voice sharp.

Berkley's smirk only becomes more pronounced. "I didn't say anything," he says innocently.

I roll my eyes. I know Berkley isn't prejudice or anything but I'm not foolish enough to believe that he wasn't raised on some old-fashioned views. "I know you're _thinking_ it. And don't you feel all high and mighty about Sherri's sister because we both know that your pureblood family has had its fair share of Squibs. _And_ not to mention a hell of a lot of _inbreeding_."

This wipes the smirk right off his face and I don't even wait for his reply as I begin to power walk towards the pumpkin patch, rage flowing through my veins. I hear Berkley sigh and soon his even-longer-than-mine legs bring him in step with me.

"What are you doing?" I bark, still fairly cross with him.

"What does it look like? I'm coming with you," he replies smoothly, his hands deep in his pockets.

"I thought you said that this whole thing is stupid," I say primly, sticking up my nose.

"Well of course it is, but it's also dangerous. _Someone_ has to make sure you don't get yourself killed."

We walk the rest of the way in silence and then there it is, nested among the vines of the orange monstrosities that are pumpkins. Hagrid's Hut is to its left, unlived in since his death last year but well maintained out of respect.

Berkley holds out his arm to stop me in my tracks. "Maybe I should do it," he murmurs, his eyes trained on the scene before us.

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm sure I can manage myself; it's not like I plan on insulting it or anything," I laugh humorlessly, swallowing the lump that has suddenly formed in my throat. And _Merlin_, my hands are sweaty. I give them a quick wipe on the legs of my jeans, inwardly hating myself for allowing me to be so overcome with fright.

Hipster on a mission or not, we can't all be fearless Gryffindors.

"_Her,"_ he corrects, joining in on my laugh but his heart's not in it. His eyes are firmly set on the creature before us and I know he's scared – whether it's for me or for himself, I can't be sure. "You might not want to ignore her gender specification; I'm pretty sure that counts as an insult."

I nod a bit too frantically for my taste. "Right."

Before I can change my mind on what I'm about to do, I take a step forward.

"Millie?"

I stop abruptly and turn my head to face him. "Yeah?"

His hands are deep in his pockets, giving me a sheepish, lopsided grin. It's almost a funny sight to see Berkley in any condition other than immaculate with his hair sticking upwards and his shirt wrinkled and un-tucked. I send him a small smile partly because it's endearing and partly because I know that I'm likely to never see it again.

"Are you sure that having a regular old feather quill isn't good enough? I hear that owls do the job quite well," he says, raising his eyebrows at me.

I sigh, shaking my head in amusement. "Berkley, regular feather quills are _so_ mainstream – ever heard of someone with a Hippogriff quill?"

Berkley gives the grass a kick. "S'pose not."

I grin. "Well, you will tomorrow – all of Hogwarts will."

I turn back around. The Hippogriff is sitting in the same position I saw it – _her_ – in through the window last night on my way to the common room from detention. The third years are learning about them from what I heard this morning after asking around; and apparently this particular Hippogriff is still grieving from Hagrid's death and refuses to leave the pumpkin patch so as to keep within view of his Hut. Professor Walsh, who doesn't get on with the species too well in general, complies so as to not get a kick to the head, I presume. He's only teaching them since, you know, they were kind of the highlight of the class when Hagrid taught it and I think the third years would be pretty put out if they missed out on something like that.

I personally never enjoyed the class, hence why I dropped it for this year, but I always found Hagrid to be a sweet man so I gritted my teeth through it. Also, I'm a Ravenclaw; we just _don't_ fail classes. Like, _ever_. So I tried really hard and despite for my lack of appreciation for Flobberworms, Blast-Ended Screwts, and the sorts, I always found the Hippogriffs to be very beautiful creatures. But despite their majestic qualities, they could still be very dangerous and I always kept my distance whenever around them during lessons. In fact, there was an incident that happened to someone in my mum's year when she was still in school – dad having already graduated the year before – and Hippogriffs weren't taught in Care for Magical Creatures for _years_ but they were brought back into the curriculum soon after the end of the war.

So I basically have nothing to be afraid of; I mean, Hippogriffs are taught in school so they can't be _that_ dangerous. That is, unless you do something to set them off like that bloke did.

Something like plucking one of their feathers so you can fashion a quill out of it.

…

I am so fucking screwed.

Okay. It's now or never. I have to remind myself of this otherwise I won't move a centimeter. My feet feel especially heavy as I put one foot in front of the other, slowly making my way towards the seated Hippogriff. She's eyeing me warily, calculating my every move just as I am hers; both of us contemplating the likelihood of the other attacking.

I'm making slow progress. This would normally be alright by me because like my dad always says, careful work is the best work but I'm getting anxious. And _I don't like_ being in positions that make me anxious. Being in the presence of a full-grown Hippogriff – even if she is chained and well restrained – makes me anxious. And believe it or not, it isn't exactly where I want to be on a Sunday night (though it does beat rounds) and I'm worried about getting caught. I know it's a bit too late for that as I am kind of past the point of no return, but I can't help it, I wanna get the job done and then get the hell out of here.

So I swallow hard and take a daring two steps at a time instead of my usual one. This seems to get no reaction from…er, shit, what's her name again? I know it's something weird like Fellfeather or HeavyHooves. But whatever her name is, I take another two steps towards her. She's still staring at me critically, her gray feathers looking a _tad_ bit ruffled but it's nothing to get my knickers in a twist about. Once she sees that I (essentially) mean her no harm, she won't be so on edge; she's just preparing herself for the worst. I get that. The only reason my wand is still tucked away in my pocket is so I don't freak her out – because believe me, I would love to have the comfort and assurance of my wand right now. But she's still sitting; it doesn't look like she'll be kicking me in the face anytime soon – so far, so good. So I take another two steps. And another until there's only a few meters between us.

I extend my hand towards her, prepping to reach towards her mane of feathers.

I made the wrong move.

It seems that I'm too close for comfort. Clearly taking my movements as a serious threat, she rises on all fours in an instant, letting out a disgruntled screech as her chest puffs out to broaden her to her full height, stomping her front claws and hind hooves in the meantime. My breath catches; I'm completely frozen to the spot as if struck petrified, unable to obey her clear message of _Step the fuck back_.

Through my panic and her build-up of her line of defense, I hear Berkley shout in the background, "Get down, Millie, _get down!_ _Bow!_"

The sound of his voice breaks me out of my immobile state and I obey without hesitation, my nose diving towards the dirt as I take a low, formal bow. I feel extremely vulnerable and my accelerated breathing is at an all-time high, but I hold my position, hoping to Merlin for the best.

It seems almost too good to be true but after a few lengthy moments, the screeching comes to a close and the stomping lessens until it stops all together. There is a heavy pause, the weight of the silence practically unbearable as I wait.

"Millie," Berkley breathes from behind me. He sounds absolutely relieved. This relaxes me, but only slightly. "She's bowing. Slowly – _slowly_ stand up. I mean it, slowly or else I'll kill you after she rips your face off."

If the situation wasn't so serious I probably would laugh.

Taking a deep breath, I start to stand ever so slightly, moving about a millimeter a second. Once I reach the halfway mark, I can see that the Hippogriff (seriously, what the hell is her name?) is already standing and seeing this as a good sign, I speed up the process a tad bit until my back is fully erect. We stare at each other for a moment. She no longer looks threatened – a little wary of me, perhaps – but she doesn't look like she's about to attack. I take the plunge and move a step forward and then stop to measure her reaction. She doesn't move.

Gingerly, I raise my hand once again and this time she doesn't shift in any way, remaining completely still. With my hand still extended, I close the distance between us, my fingers brushing against her soft mane of feathers. She sends me a playful snort and nuzzles her massive head into my hand. I smile and feeling pretty confident, I give her a pat and hum in appreciation of her beastly beauty. After a few minutes, it becomes clear to me: I've got her right where I want her; it's now or never.

So my fingers take a hold of a single feather. I figure that I should pluck it like you would a plaster: quickly so as to minimize any pain.

Once pulled, nothing could have prepared me for what happens next.

I am head butted by a Hippogriff.

And everything goes black.

I am bobbing up and down. It's kind of rhythmic in a way, my body giving a continuous pulse, and it needs to stop – like _now._ Its constant jerk is absolutely _killing_ my sore head – actually my whole body feels heavy and sore. I have a faint, distant memory of getting my arse kicked by a bloody Hippogriff but I don't give it too much thought; thinking hurts and the thought of thinking hurts even more.

A small groan escapes my lips and with much effort my eyes flutter open. The first thing I see is a chin. And then I see that the chin is attached to a face. And that face belongs to Berkley.

Berkley is carrying me. We're heading back to the castle.

"Finally awake, huh, arsehole?" he says to me without glancing down. He's angry; his jaw is tight.

"Miss me much?" I croak out, my eyes trained on the curve of his lower lip.

He ignores my question. "I got your stupid feather. And I saved your sorry arse. You're bloody fucking welcome." And then he calls me a word that I don't think his mother would approve of him saying. Usually I wouldn't tolerate being described with such a horrid remark but I'm in too much pain to do anything about it. I could always hex him in the morning.

"Thanks," I murmur weakly. "How'd you do it?"

"After Buckbeak head butted you –"

"Who?" I interrupt, completely confused.

Berkley looks down at me for the first time, eyeing me critically. "Buckbeak," he repeats slowly. "That's the name of the sodding Hippogriff that attacked you. Merlin, how hard did she hit you?"

I ignore his jab, appalled by my former professor's inability to be at least _somewhat_ creative. "Her name's Buckbeak? Oh, how bloody _original_."

Berkley rolls his eyes. "Anyway, I had to hit her with at least four strong Confunding Charms before she stopped attacking you. She gave you a few good pecks in the meantime, but I healed them the best I could. You might have a couple dodgy scars on you but it wasn't too bad of a job if I do say so myself."

I may be dizzy and in a lot of pain, but my mind is still clear enough to understand the full meaning of his statement. And this scares me.

"Wait," I squeak, my head pounding and panic seeping in. "You aren't taking me to the Hospital Wing?"

Berkley's features are suddenly marred by the most evil of expressions.

"Oh you know Hospital Wings," he says. "They're just _so_ mainstream."

A/N: Chapter 3! Thanks again to everyone who has read and/or reviewed the previous two chapters! I hope this story is picking up and becoming a bit more enjoyable. Someone pointed out to me that this story is kind of lacking in dialogue and you're absolutely right! I've never noticed that before but as I write chapter 5 I am keeping that in mind and trying to add more speaking. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and please leave me a review to let me know what you think.

~Jess :D


	4. Day 4

Monday, 4 October 2021: Day 4

I am in so much pain right now.

Under normal circumstances I would pay Madam Pomfrey a visit, and she would kindly rid me of my various aches and pains and my dodgy scars – courtesy of one Wren Berkley III – faster than you can say "pumpkin juice." However, I am unable to indulge in this luxury because one simply does not enter the Hospital Wing without being accosted by our lovely Matron on the origin of their injuries and various ailments. And one simply does not reveal the origin of their injuries and various ailments when after curfew escapades are involved. Especially when that after curfew escapade involved harassing a Hippogriff. And then being head-butted, pecked, and clawed by said Hippogriff.

One simply does not.

Hence why I am lying in bed miserably, my head about ready to explode.

Not exactly my definition of a good morning.

A groan escapes from my lips as I roll over onto my side, the movement proving to be a tad bit too fast for my liking. The world goes out of focus, reduced to nothing but a mere multicolored smear and my fingers slide out from beneath the covers to rub continuous circles into my throbbing temple.

Ladies and gents, I officially know what Hell feels like – or at least what it's really like to need glasses. I'm sad to report that it's every bit as shitty as it's cracked up to be.

Reveling in the cruelty of it all, I close my eyes miserably, letting out a sigh. And wait for death to take me.

A beat. A pause. Complete silence.

Still alive and breathing.

_Great_.

I sigh once more. Yesterday did not go as planned.

I can feel my heartbeat accelerate in the pounding of my head and I wince – from the memory or from the headache, I'm not so certain. Maybe it's a mix of both. But one thing is for sure: I wasn't supposed to play the damsel in distress last night. I wasn't supposed to be rescued – and by a man, at that. I was supposed to be my own hero.

Before I can stop it, the events from last night replay in my head like a slideshow and _fuck_, just…fuck.

"Rise and shine, bitch."

The blue hangings around my four-poster are suddenly yanked apart and Sherri is standing above me, the sun forming a blinding halo of light around her person. Kind of like God except for that I want to punch her in the face. Like, more than usual. In an act of self-preservation, I duck beneath the covers only to have them torn from my grasp seconds later.

"Sod off, Sherri, I'm dying," I groan, placing the heel of my hands over my eyes to block out the glare.

"Oh no you don't," – she tears my hands away from my face so that we are seeing eye to eye – "Not after I spent all that time charming that bloody damned feather into a quill. You," she says pointedly. "You are going to class."

There is a moment where we are looking at each other and neither of us is moving so that there's just a whole lot of looking and a whole lot of not moving. I swallow hard.

"What's that smell?" I ask faintly, breaking the prolonged stillness that has allowed me to finally notice the accosting odor that surrounds us.

Smells like…sickeningly sweet flowers. Mixed with baby powder.

Not exactly helping my headache.

As soon as I say it, Sherri releases my wrists and sits on the edge of my bed, letting out a sigh and mumbling something rather inaudibly.

I sit up, raising an amused eyebrow. Everything starts to spin but I do my best to ignore it as my eyes readjust. "What's that?"

"It's _Lavender's Spell_," she bursts out, sounding on the verge of hysteria, shame written all over her face. "I ordered it from _Witch Weekly_ 'bout a week ago because I read on the loo wall that it's Hunter's Amortentia."

I stare at her blankly as the beating in my head gives me a steady kick, not really sure what to make of this information. I mean, I can't even imagine doing such a thing just to make a bloke momentarily sniff in my direction – and a bloke like _Hunter Boot,_ for that matter – but really? _Lavender's Spell?_ How does one as intelligent as Sherri Thomas stoop so low?

Not entirely sure how to put this gently, I settle for telling her the plain and simple truth. "That is absolutely wretched."

She runs a frustrated hand through her dark hair. "I know."

"You smell like a baby prostitute."

"I _know_."

We stare at one another for a bit longer. "You should, like, do something about that. Shower or something."

She waves me off. "Later. In the meantime I must use my repugnant odor to _hunt_ a bloke. A certain bloke that is fit to _boot_-"

"Just stop there. The name puns aren't funny, really Sherri." With a scowl she takes off her shoe and throws it at me. I raise my hands to my face to protect myself, laughing. "Well it's true," I say as the rubber sole of her trainer contacts with my wrist. "Someone had to say it, _honestly_."

"Just get up, Millie. You and your phony hipster arse are missing breakfast."

I am sitting in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom on the third floor; class is about to start in just a few minutes. Berkley is on my right, the crease in between his eyebrows apparent as he furrows them together, and his lower lip jutting out in the brooding look I have come to know well. He won't look at me, but it's not like it's the first time he's been cross with me so I'm not too worried about it. Besides, I'm more than a bit cross with him as well so I guess we're even.

I look across the sea of my fellow students and see Sherri on the other side of the room sitting in the front row with Hattie Garret. It takes me a moment to catch her eye, but once we've made eye contact she gives me the signal and I nod in understanding. My head still hurts, but well, it's show time. I reach into my bag as she inconspicuously removes her wand from her robes. Though I cannot hear her, I am well aware of the _Confringo_ she is about to cast.

The rest of the class is about to find out as well.

Not a moment later, the hum of voices in the room soon comes to a sudden halt when a glass bottle explodes from the shelf behind me, attracting the attention of the entire room. The yelps of surprise and momentary panic die down almost immediately as my classmates take notice of me in the back row.

"Merlin's Beard, Walker, what's that you got there?" Sherri gasps her scripted line in a way that's a bit too theatrical for my tastes, but it'll have to do. When her statement is met with collective silence, she then elbows her best mate heftily in the ribs, cueing Hattie to exclaim, "Blimey!"

They are, of course, referring to the quill I am holding firmly in my left hand, its gray feather seeming a bit ostentatious now that the entire class has their eyes on me. Being from the mane of a full-grown Hippogriff, it is as grand and oversized as one would expect and come to think of it, it's the perfect writing instrument for someone who wishes to tickle their throat for a cheap laugh while composing an exceedingly dull essay.

Not very Hipster, I'll admit.

But this is just a technicality and it's too late to back out now.

"Oh, well, you know," I say smoothly, leaning back in my chair and waving the quill in a counter-clockwise motion with just the slightest movement of my wrist. "Just a quill I made with a Hippogriff feather." I say this with ease, as if the bit of charm work was nothing – which it was, for me at least, considering I had no part in its manufacturing.

I can feel rather than see Berkley roll his eyes from beside me but I keep my focus trained on Sherri who is looking at me right now as if to say, _"Really? You made that quill? Funny, because I remember doing that at the crack-arse of dawn and yet you were the one to sleep in this morning."_

I hold back a smirk and remind her to shut the bloody eff up and say her next line. You know, with my eyes and all. Because we're totally capable of doing such a thing.

Yeah.

Whether she received my act of telepathy or not, Sherri continues with Part II of our Master Plan of Trendy Hipster Proportions. Her acting isn't getting any better, but beggers can't be choosers. Or so they say.

"That's so brill, Walker, wherever can I get such a priceless and trendy item? Did you make your purchase in Diagon Alley? Hogsmeade?"

I am acutely aware of the fact that we're losing people's attention. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the two Slytherin girls on my left chatting it up, giggling and pointing at something they've got written on a piece of parchment. And it's not just them; the room's volume is beginning to steadily rise as students one by one swivel in their seats so that they are facing front once more.

My plans – ruined. All that hard work: the skipping rounds, sneaking out of the castle, the scars, and the concussion – all for nothing. I am desperate. I raise my voice for my rehearsed response to Sherri, a panicked edge to my words.

"Glad you asked, Thomas. It was neither. Actually, I –"

"Oi! Who in here finished the Ancient Runes translation? I need to copy it before class later." Before I can take control of the situation, Sebastian Turk has swiftly cut me off and from then on, all hell breaks loose and I've lost my audience. Sherri gives me a smile that's so full of pity before she turns back around that I'm about ready to lose it.

I so badly want to hit Turk with the most powerful Bat Bogie Hex he's ever seen, to set the entire classroom on fire, to straggle that bloody smirk off of Fer – I mean, _Nott's_ face, to send a Stinging Hex in Honoria Smith's direction just for being there, to start a riot, _anything_, but I remain in my seat. Silent. Restrained. And above all, embarrassed. But no one is looking at me anymore – and I'm not sure whether that is the best or worst part of this whole mess.

I am startled when a warm, cautious hand rests on my shoulder. It's Berkley. He's giving me a sad smile and I don't know what to make of it.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, tugging on his collar with his other hand.

Frustrated, I wipe away a runaway tear. "Why? Now's your perfect opportunity to say that you told me so."

His hand moves from my right shoulder to my left so that his arm is around me and he pulls me closer. I reluctantly rest my head on his shoulder – because, well, it's there. "Well you and I both know that I did. And Thomas knows as well, I suppose, but she doesn't really count because she's not a real person."

A weak laugh escapes from my lips. I don't say anything. Just sit there, defeated, until Professor Falk sweeps into the room with a hearty apology for his tardiness.

Once he's started I can barely concentrate on his lecture; the words he has written on the board are almost codes and symbols in which I am unable to decipher. We're learning the theory part to Nonverbal Spells before we can jump into the application and I know I should be paying attention because next lesson will be a practical where we will be splitting into pairs to try it out. But I can't, I can't process anything he's saying. This isn't normal for me; I'm a diligent student.

Right now, however, I am anything but. I am miserable.

The class is over before I know it and the students around me are stuffing their quills and notes into their bags, the room's noise level at its peak.

"We have an essay due next lesson," Berkley says from beside me, looking down rather than at me as he is putting his own belongings away. "Two rolls of parchment. On the notes we just took today and its advantages to real life defense. I'll explain everything you missed during lunch; you can copy my notes then."

I send him a grateful smile and thank him, knowing that this is his own little way of making up for what had happened before the lesson.

We say our farewells and he is off to Care of Magical Creatures. I have Ancient Runes next but I stay behind, the room almost empty except for the presence of Turk, Wood, Potter, and Smith – who, not that I was staring or anything, had already said her more than enthusiastic good-bye to my boyfriend.

Er, _ex_-boyfriend.

Determined not to look at her, slaggy boyfriend thief that she is, I rise from my seat in the back row and head to where the four Gryffindors are situated, chatting it up while putting their belongings away.

Turk is the first to notice me, sending me a grin. "Wotcher Walker. That was some quill you got there at the beginning of class."

I readjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder, rolling my eyes. "I didn't come for you to mock me, Turk – you did enough of that earlier. And I'm here for business only – nothing that concerns you."

"Oh don't be such a swot. You were tanking and I saved you."

"How very noble of you," I say sardonically with another roll of my eyes.

"So what is it that you want, Walker?" Potter cuts in dryly before Turk could bite back. "We've all got places to go, people to see. You know how it is."

I turn to glare at him at the sound of his voice, what with him acting like I'm below him and his mates. Men and their arrogance. I almost scoff and I'm about to give him a piece of my mind when I see Smith out of the corner of my eye. And I stop. She is next Potter, to his left, and she isn't quite facing me head on, looking determinedly at the floor instead; her hair being used as a curtain of sorts to shield her face. Hiding – she's hiding from me. It suddenly occurs to me that this is her guilt. She was the one who came on top and yet she isn't all high and mighty about it; I mean, she can't even look me in the eye.

Suddenly feeling extremely awkward, I clear my throat and turn to Wood – the only one in the group I really had the intention of speaking to when I initially walked over. Unfortunately you cannot encounter one without the whole motley crew.

Making sure that my back – or at least my profile – is facing the other three, I say to Wood, "So I'm sure you've been told that we're rounds partners now."

A bit surprised that I am suddenly addressing him, he is a bit slow to respond. He clears his throat and shoves his hands into his trouser pockets. "Oh, yeah, Ross cornered me at dinner last night."

I can feel the eyes of the others on me, which causes me to involuntarily shift my feet – especially since the reason for the switch is right beside me. I don't even know how to respond to that. I try to breathe; it's a work in progress. "Where do you want to meet? In front of the Fat Lady?"

He shrugs. "I'll come to Ravenclaw Tower."

"You don't have to do that," I say – and I mean it. Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean that I need babying. "I'm fully capable of walking up two flights of stairs, you know."

But I am ignored. "I'll come to you; it's no big deal."

I roll my eyes. Fucking Gryffindor and they're fucking chivalry. What a load of rubbish.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see Turk swoon dramatically into Potter, the pair bursting into laughter, flailing about and declaring things such as _"Oh my hero,"_ and _"How chivalrous,"_ and something else that is particularly vulgar. Smith remains still.

Flushing something fierce, I have to suppress the urge to hex the two boys into oblivion.

"Well then," I say tightly, more than a bit piqued because of Turk and Potter's idiocy and the ever-present shadow in my life: Miss Honoria Smith. "I guess that's settled. Cheers, Wood." I give him a nod and turn on my heel, determined to leave the classroom as fast as possible. I do have my next class to consider, but, well, I just need to get the hell out of here.

"Oi, Walker!" Turk calls after me. "Could I maybe borrow that translation –?"

"Are you really that much of a narcissist or are you just daft? Either way you're positively fucked because while I have many talents, Turk, I cannot fix stupid and I don't think your arrogance is much of a better alternative."

And I leave them with that, not even staying to revel in the sound of Potter's laughter.

"Are you going to eat that?"

I shift my focus from determinedly staring at the table to Berkley who is sitting across from me. I nudge my bowl of soup forward. "Have at it," I sigh.

"Oh don't act all miserable," he chided, pointing at me with his spoon. "No one even remembers what happened with you this morning – and you have Becca Sprang to thank for that. I mean, she fell down the stairs and flashed the whole corridor her knickers; if that is not heaven sent, I don't know what is."

I roll my eyes. "Who do you think pushed her? And besides, I'm completely over _The Incident_; it's just that Turk decided to sit next to me in Ancient Runes today and now we're partners for an assignment and it's really stressing me out."

Berkley nodded in understanding. "I'll be sure to find you a grave plot in the shade when he drives you to off yourself."

I let out a laugh. "How very considerate of you."

He shrugs and the corner of his mouth tugs into a grin. "It's what I do."

"Oh yes, naturally. I mean when I first saw you on the train, I pegged you as the kind of bloke that would be sensitive to the conditions of his best mate's resting place."

"Really? Because I pegged you as a pain in the arse."

I narrow my eyes. He starts to eat my soup.

And suddenly my day is starting to look up because Berkley is being a goddamn prat and that means that everything – and I mean _everything_ – is right in the world.

For now, at least.

**A/N: So that's chapter 4! And the last of the pre-written chapters. I hope that you enjoyed it and I'm sorry to say that updates might be kind of slow from here on. I have another story, Wonderland, in progress and I'm looking to publish a James/Lily AU soon so yeah I have a lot of stories on my plate. And knowing me, I'll get distracted and write a bunch of oneshots too. But I'm going to continue this, of course. I'm about 1/3 of the way through chapter 5 so hopefully that that'll be finished soon.**

**So I hope you enjoyed this chapter; please let me know in a review and I'll try to update soon :)**

**~Jess :D**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize. This chapter was written for ohmymerlin's Mean Girls Quote Challenge and the quote "You smell like a baby prostitue" is from the aforementioned film, written by the lovely Tiny Fey.**


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